collegedropout | This is the End

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This is the End

The end of the world just happens.

Well, something like that. Sam isn't really very keen on where it began, other than when the Croatoan virus suddenly hit big in parts of the United States and burned outward in every direction; at this point, Sam had already said his goodbyes to Dean, had picked a hemisphere (non-literally, because he's not so sure he could forge plane tickets to China right this moment), started to try to correct his life. There were dreams, yeah, some Lucifer here and there to intrude on his privacy. But he was managing. Until, y'know. Shit hit the fan. In the end, phones went down, electricity, running water supplies. Places shut down. Boarded up. Humanity, trying to thrive. Lucifer, celebrating in his nightmares.

Sam never did speak to Dean again, after their final goodbye. Now he doesn't know if his brother is alive or dead out there.

Maybe he'll never know 'til it's too late. Or until he's dead. Sam's a pretty lucky guy, all things... considered. He's immune. Been bitten more than once even (covered by his jacket, because if people saw... well, he's not about to get mistaken for infected, even if they're only scar tissue now), though most of it was born out of a sick sense of penance. He's hardly afraid to go barreling into a horde of insane viral carriers if it means maybe saving one life who can't handle getting infected. He can go on supply runs for people, too. The more the world eroded away, the more he finds himself wandering from place to place, directionless and distraught.

This is all his fault. It's all on him.

He should have never let the devil out.

He should have never believed a demon could be anything but a twisted, ugly demon.

He should have... Should have done something different.

Bobby isn't in his home, Jo and Ellen are MIA, no signs of life from anyone he knows. No Dean. Just more people to help. Mouths to feed. Croats to kill. By the time he reaches a little place in California, he's exhausted, seeking out an abandoned building to rest up there. He uses his pack as a pillow and listens for any sounds of the infected. Or survivors. It's not like he can deny someone in need of help, in a mess he made. There's probably some big issue just around the corner. Danger. Right now, his only concern is actually getting a few hours of rest before the Devil comes to poke around inside his noggin.

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Sam doesn't bother blocking it. Now that he knows who it is, he's not sure if it matters anyway. He collapses on his ass, dragging himself tiredly to his knees while a small trickle of blood plays down his upper lip. He wipes at it, scoffing, looking anywhere but at Dean. "If you're here to rob me blind, then, you're out of luck. I just have a knife and a blanket. Since you apparently enjoy murdering people in their fucking sleep, anyway."

Sam would be dead right now if the gun hadn't failed to jam.

It says a lot about Dean. He gets up, walking back toward his small pack and picking it up to slip it back on his back. He doesn't want to tear up in front of Dean. He doesn't want him to know how fucking miserable and hurt he is that this is literally their first interaction back. He knew it would have failed anyway. He's not Dean's brother, not anymore. He knew that when he said goodbye. Well, despite the nagging voice that had told him 'he would never'.

"The place is yours. Good seeing you again, you prick. Family reunion was a blast."

He's leaving. He doesn't have time for this shit. He's got a life to stumble through until something kills him or tries to force him to say 'yes'.

Dean finally gets up off the ground, grabbing his gun in the process. He doesn't point it at Sam again, but he doesn't put it away, either. He holds it idly, in a way that seems like he's just toying it, when in reality, he's keeping it ready for use at a moment's notice. It obviously doesn't bother him when Sam points out that Dean nearly killed him — it wouldn't have been an ideal situation, but Dean has learned that surviving is all about mitigating risk, and in that moment, Sam had been a big risk.

You do what you gotta do, and Dean isn't going to apologize for it.

He calmly watches Sam grab his things and start walking his way out, as though Sam leaving is the most natural thing in the world —

and it is, really.

But Dean isn't done with him yet. If Sam wants to go, that's fine — it's for the best, really, since they can't expect to try and fix what has been broken for years. First, though, Dean wants to know:

"You hear anything about the Colt?" he asks Sam's back, completely ignoring all his other comments.

"No," he says, squaring his jaw as he turns his back to Dean. "I haven't heard anything. There's a small settlement a few hours north I'm heading to, gonna see if they need anyone for supply runs. You should stop by. Maybe they know something."

He hesitates, though, glancing back. As if it takes so much to even ask him anything at all. "Have you seen any of the others?" Because if Sam goes, he at least wants to know if anyone else is making it out there. Part of him wonders if they even should; he's watching humanity crumble, his brother living proof. He can't stand it.

Figures. Dean is beginning to wonder if he's following a dead lead. He's low on supplies and completely out of backup on this trip - and yet he can't find any trace of the gun. It's frustrating, but Dean needs to discount all possibilities before he can turn back around. If the Colt is out here, he doesn't want to miss his chance to grab it.

"Bobby's alive," Dean answers. "Cas turned hippie, but he's still alive, too, somehow." A slight hint of derision in his tone - Cas is loyal, but he spends most of his time stoned nowadays, so Dean doesn't exactly count him as the most dependable guy around. "Ellen and Jo got infected." And now they're dead. Dean killed Jo himself - that was back when he was still hopeful that he could save people and push the end of the world back long enough to make a difference. It hurt, then, to aim and fire, but that was a while back. Dean has hardened himself to the guilt.

"You missed a lot. It's been one hell of a ride."

Dean spins his gun in his hands, then walks toward Sam with the intention of passing him up to get back on the road. Dean could use at least a couple of hours of sleep since he's been running on empty since he shot Bryan - it's rough business, catching shut-eye when there's no one to watch your back - but now he figures he's going to have to stay awake to make sure Sam isn't going to double back around and try anything. Or, worse, get to the Colt before Dean and use it for the enemy.

Dean doesn't know the guy anymore. He needs to consider all possible scenarios.

The loss of Ellen and Jo isn't shocking. Everyone is struggling to live; plenty are dying anyway. But regardless, it puts a lump in his throat that he needs a moment to work around.

"I can tell it has been wild," Sam says, voice soft and brimming with sadness. "Turned you into a Croat, and everything. Careful not to shoot yourself."

He chokes on a laugh.

"At least I can die sooner or later knowing everything about you that mattered died already." He shucks on the pack more, starts walking out too, too awake and in pain to try to sleep through Lucifer tonight. It isn't unusual. He doesn't have Dean's car, but he'll painstakingly travel until his feet are raw, because that's the status quo. "Bye, Dean."

He figures by the time he gets there himself, Dean'll be long gone. This is probably it. He'll save his tears for when he's out on his own in the night. The old Dean probably would have been joking if he called Sam a sap. He would give anything to fix it.

But Dean just sees a freak, someone who's not his brother. He doesn't give a fuck about him anymore. Makes carrying on a hell of a lot heavier. Makes breathing thick and difficult, like his head is swarming with bees, stuffed with cotton. There are pictures of his family in his bag, burning holes there.

One foot in front of the other.

Don't break down yet.

People need help.

Dean just listens as he walks, fully intending on leaving Sam without acknowledging him beyond what he has done already. It isn't worth it - engaging in conversation, trying to act like they can get back to a place where they are brothers, again. It's better to treat him like a stranger. Then they can both move on with their lives.

But just before they make it outside, Dean turns around to look at Sam - ignoring that dismissive Bye, Dean.

"You're judging me?"

He huffs out a humorless, breathy laugh.

"For doing what I gotta do to survive in a world that you ended." He points at Sam with the pistol, emphasizing that you.

"Hate to break it to you, Sammy," Dean adds, and there is no affection in his use of the nickname, "But you don't got a moral foot to stand on."

He looks back at Dean, face hollowed out and eyes empty and red-rimmed from exhaustion and solitude. He doesn't have the same fight in him as he used to. As Dean does now. "Yeah. I did this. And yeah, if you had any common sense, you would've finished the job with that knife. Doesn't change anything I said, does it? You're as much a walking corpse as me."

He shrugs.

"Keep it up, you'll be stuck in Hell next to me. Wouldn't want that."

That's a genuine warning. He doesn't bother with arguing anymore. He doesn't ask why Dean doesn't just blow his brains out right now, with his back turned. He figures this is all punishment. And anyway, Lucifer will probably make good on his multiple threats to bring him back to life.

He keeps walking. The night is cold as hell, his breaths coming out in small puffs. The front door is just a frame. He wonders if the colt could kill him completely. Maybe Lucifer would weaken enough for someone to kill. Like Dean. As always, these are simply hopeful daydreams.

"Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt," Dean replies, shrugging Sam's comments off. He is aware of his own mortality - he faces it every day, after all - and Dean definitely isn't keen on going back to Hell, but he doesn't focus any energy on thinking about the afterlife. The way he sees it, he has to do whatever necessary to bring down Lucifer once and for all. If that road leads to Hell, then so be it. If he's successful, at least Dean will have accomplished something before being tossed back down there.

He doesn't try to make any further conversation. Instead, he lets Sam go his way. Dean turns, heading back toward his van, parked just down the road. He's going to need gas, soon, which he was hoping to put off until daylight, but if he's heading back out on the road already, then sooner would be better than later.

He makes it to the van, pulls the handle, and is halfway into the seat when a Croat gets the jump on him.

He hadn't seen the Croat, which isn't like Dean - usually he's good at spotting them, even in the dark, since he's had so much practice. Freaking Sam - distracting him. He shouldn't have let that happen, but here he is, a Croat looming over him, cutting its stomach open.

Shit.

The blood pours out all over Dean - his jacket, his shirt, his skin. The Croat - a woman - rubs a hand over her stomach wound as Dean struggles to raise his pistol, reaches forward toward Dean's face -

And Dean shoots it, a single shot sounding in the night.

He shoves the corpse off of him quickly, but the damage is done. He's covered in blood and the chance that he's managed to be infected is pretty damn high. Dean was in a scuffle with Croats just yesterday, and while he doesn't have any gaping wounds, he did suffer a couple of scrapes, which may not be completely scabbed over. He sits back up, pistol still in hand.

There are more where that particular Croat comes from, and in the scuffle they are descending upon Dean just as swiftly -- two of them, actually, and once the girl is down he'll get a good view of one of them lunging for him. Sam -- strangely, curiously, against all he thinks Dean would want from him -- appears from the sidelines and grabs the man, sinking his blade into the soft throat there. There is one other and he's rushing him, grabbing him by the hair and ripping the blade through his chest, into his heart. With his dying breath, he bites down on Sam's exposed arm, and Sam doesn't bother trying to evade. The layers prevent any piercing teeth, even if he were able to get infected.

He rushes to Dean.

Not sure why, but he does, and his hands shake when he grabs Dean's shirt, eyes wide and full of fear. "You fucking idiot, why -- Get this off, I've got water to wash it off -- we're gonna switch clothes. Get them off."

He's terrified.

It's preposterous.

He can't help it. Just like he didn't leave, didn't walk along further, wanted to hang back and make sure... Something. Make sure everything was okay? It's the least he could do.

Dean does see Sam taking care of the other two Croats, and thinks he's an idiot for not keeping walking. Dean likely would have, were the situation reversed.

Then again, Sam is immune and he isn't.

It still strikes him as a stupid move, but Sam makes quick work of the Croats, then comes over, freaking out.

Dean is calm. He grabs Sam's wrist to get him to stop pulling on his shirt. "Stop."

There's only one way this is going to end, and it isn't going to be with Dean becoming a Croat.

He raises the pistol in his other hand to his head, resting the barrel against his skull. "Guess it's Hell for me after all," he tells Sam.

It's the best, most logical decision: off himself before he turns, just like he offed Bryan and countless others. It isn't that he is without reservation — he really would rather not put a bullet in his own skull, but he doubts Sam has the gumption to do it for him — but he refuses to live to see himself spread this infection.

Oh, well, this is the easiest choice he's made since the outbreak.

He grabs the gun, wrenches Dean's wrist to the side, and then slams his head into Dean's chin as hard as he can. Because it's hell of a lot easier to clean up and check out an unconscious man than it is someone trying to pre-emptively kill himself for no fucking reason (pot, kettle, whatever; he doesn't care). Once he's got Dean down for the count, he can at least drag him out and give him a look over; he pulls an old flashlight and a small case from his pack (because he lied to Dean, just in case the asshole tries to really steal from him), checking the still form over. Quickly, he cuts through the shirt, because it's too risky to pull it up over Dean's head. The rest of him looks okay - the jacket is bloody, but it's removable. Pants have some smears, but it's nothing severe.

He pours out water, wipes away blood as carefully as he can. It's a close call, to be sure, but he thinks it'll be okay; in case it's not, he monitors Dean's pulse. It's steady. Usually with Croats, blood pressure rises. It's not an exact science, but...

Right. He opens up his pack, starts to put the square bandages over scrapes, over anything that could be contaminated. He slips off his shirt, tugs it over Dean. He was gonna take Dean's shirt, but - it's pretty much ruined with blood, and he cut through it anyway, so. He'll just switch off jackets with Dean. Sam's jacket is warmer anyway. The fucker.

Once Dean is dressed again...

Well, he's clean. But he's still unconscious.

Shit.

Well, if he just drives them even just thirty minutes out, they can avoid any other Croats in the area that could have heard anything. He puts Dean in the back (with surprising care, the fucker, once again). He gets in and drives, kind of rusty, because he hasn't driven in years. But hey, Dean taught him since he was nine, so... so. So.

He sighs. Pulls over, turns off the car, and sits outside of it on the side of the road at night while he waits for Dean to come back around. At this point, he'll be able to tell what the damage is from the Croat, but... it looks good. Sam thinks it's okay. Once he wakes up, if he doesn't beat the shit out of him for knocking him out, he can part ways then. Then they're done. It's done, walking away again with bruises and cuts from each other's fists, leaving a mark for a few weeks until that dries up too and there's nothing to remember.

Well, for Dean. Sam still has pictures. He looks at them, as he waits, rubbing his thumb over one of Jess and him from Stanford. The one next to it is Dean and him laughing; Sam has those curls, all young and stupid and actually semi-innocent.

Every time he considers burning these, he can't.

Edited 2015-03-18 01:23 (UTC)

Maybe it's indicative of just how hardened Dean has become, but he doesn't expect Sam to stop him. He expects Sam to be sappy about it sure — expects him to lament a little, because that's just the way Dean remembers Sam as being, and he figures old habits die hard — but he doesn't anticipate that Sam will try and stop him. It doesn't help that Dean's guard is down, since he plans on dying anyway.

Sam is too quick. Dean is effectively subdued and knocked out.

When he wakes up, he's in the back of the van. He sits up, head pounding, and rubs his face. He doesn't know how long he's been out, but he isn't a Croat — yet.

He opens the door to the van and climbs out. He realizes, sparing a glance downward, that he is wearing Sam's clothes now. He doesn't have his pistol on him anymore, which makes him feel ill at ease. He never goes anywhere without having it available.

Seeing Sam, Dean walks over to him, noting that he's having a little trip down memory lane but not giving a damn about that — Dean is pissed.

"You fucking moron." Dean wants to go off on him, wants to punch him again, a few times for good measure, for saving him — because saving him risked Dean becoming something he never, ever wants to become.

But he needs to know, before anything else: "How long has it been?"

Sam tucks away the pictures, calm as usual, and zips up the bloody jacket to get the full warmth of it. He sort of wishes he had his old gloves; he'd given them up to someone else who was more deserving. That's sort of just what he is now. Not that it gives him much comfort, after what happened to the world, but it does feel right when he can give someone something, anything, to make this all easier.

"I'm the moron? You're clean, Dean. Been almost two hours since she attacked you, no symptoms, not even a change in temp or heart rate. Nothing other than being pissed off, but I'm starting to notice you're always pissed off."

He shakes his head, rising to his feet. "Shouldn't shoot until you know who'll make it. There's not enough of us around as there is. But sure — you wanna wail on me, do it. I see the look in your eye. You wouldn't be the first."

He's probably been dying for the reason to, anyway.

Edited 2015-03-18 03:28 (UTC)

Two hours, no symptoms. He's not clear of the threat just yet, but now that he's made it this far — forced into riding it out — he might as well see it to the end.

It isn't like Sam was kind enough to leave him his freaking gun.

"Don't tell me what I should or shouldn't do," Dean snaps, and yeah, it's pretty freaking tempting to just let loose on Sam, but he restrains himself because he has other questions. "Everything I do is for survival." Not necessarily the survival of his little group, but the survival of the world — the idea that he can get to Lucifer before there are no survivors left.

Then, the most important question: "Where's my fucking gun, Sam."

And his knives, which are probably in the blood jacket Sam's now wearing.

"Gimme 'em. Now."

"I already told you, nothing you're doing is actually survival, not what really matters for survival. But whatever." He looks Dean up and down, wishing he had a little water. Used it all cleaning up this jerk next to him. Go figure. It's like he can't even help but throw things at him, whether he likes it or not. He stuffs his hands in the pockets. "You going to try to kill yourself again?"

Because that would be pretty stupid on his part, after making it for this long.

"Because if you die now, who else who's that pigheaded will actually get the Colt?"

They can debate their separate philosophies to the death, but it won't change Dean's mind. A guy might be infected? Better to take him out before he rips out of his restraints and tears open someone's throat. Dean's seen it happen. A looter is camping in an abandoned building? Better to shoot first and ask questions later or you'll wind up shot over the territory. It happened to Dean — twice. He still has the scars from the shitty doctoring job he did on those wounds.

Get contaminated? Dying is better than risking being part of all of this. Dead would have taken death easily — doesn't regret that he was about to pull the trigger, even though he's survived so far.

"It's none of your god damn business what I do with it, so hand it over."

Dean reaches out an arm.

Sam's right, though, in that Dean has little faith in the rest of his men. He doubts they'll pull off finding the Colt without him. It needs to be Dean — but Dean would rather be dead with a bullet in his brain than a Croat, no matter the consequences.

Sam looks up at Dean, hesitating, and he can't fucking help it that the uncertainty and concern flashes in his eyes. He's just not capable of being like that; he never has been that great at hiding how he feels from his brother. Stranger. Whatever he is now. He holds out the gun grip-up, wondering if Dean's just gonna blow his brains out and leave everything Sam did pointless in the end. He also pulls the knives, familiar with Dean's favorite hiding places regardless of how much time has passed. "I'll bury you, if you do. Since I'm already here. Unless you'd prefer the hunter's pyre." He looks down, away from Dean. "I can figure something out."

He will. Because he's held onto his humanity for a reason. What else can he try to keep? He gets up, patting off his pants. The blood on his clothes is dry now. He coughs into his sleeve, and says, "But if you're not, you're good to drive. Go ahead and keep following this road, you'll run into the settlement, from what I know."

Dean takes the gun, and immediately feels a lot less tense. He hates being defenseless - won't go anywhere, not even in the Camp, without having his weapons on him. Even though Sam has made it clear that he wants Dean to live, Dean can't be at ease - or, at least, as at ease as he gets these days - until he has it back.

He takes the knives, too, and finds a place in Sam's jacket to store them for now.

"I made it this long," Dean tells him. "Might as well stick it out now." In truth, it does seem like he has gotten away without infection, but Dean is still pissed off about being saved - the odds weren't in his favor, and he had no right keeping Dean from killing himself. Especially not after all this time.

He glances at the van, then back at Sam. "Did you bother to fill her up while you were playing hero?" He doesn't wait for a response, because he assumes he knows the answer: Sam was too damn busy trying to make sure Dean would live to go off and siphon gas from somewhere. "Didn't think so. She's got to be running on empty by now."

Dean can't afford to get stuck without a vehicle. He eventually needs to make it back to the Camp.

"Get in the van. You'll watch my back while I get some gas."

It's an order that Dean expects to be obeyed - clearly, he's grown accustomed to being listened to over the past few years. He starts walking without seeing if Sam will follow - not exactly keen on having a tag along who is going to get weepy and sentimental every time something bad happens, but he has at least Sam has proven that he isn't a threat. That, and Dean does need a little backup - he can't even risk closing his eyes without someone to help him keep guard. Might as well use what he's got - pickings are slim.

"Don't think that means I'm gonna sit around and listen to you lecture me," he adds as he walks. "You're still a fucking moron."

Edited 2015-03-18 16:36 (UTC)

"All right, Rambo. You're a hard ass, I get it." Sam almost declines entirely, but he has the same thought process -- Dean will probably get his ass attached by Croats, and if Sam sticks around long enough to get him gas, then whatever. Truth be told, he wants to run in the opposite direction; Dean's already destroyed the small sacred memory he had of their old brotherhood. He doesn't want to watch this train wreck. Rather his own. "I don't need to lecture you. You already know you're out of your mind. Just go where you're going so I can move on, before you end up shooting me because I blink funny."

Lecture, what lecture. He can at least say he hasn't lost every ounce of sass. Maybe it was waiting for Dean. He sits in the very back of the van, folds his arms, ready to nap until Dean actually needs him. He doesn't get much sleep, but it's worsened by the constant badgering from the devil. He's tired in pretty much every way imaginable.

"Found Dean, huh? What a class act."

"Shut up."

"I'm just saying, the Angels abandoned everything. Your brother hates you. Could just make this easy for yourself."

"No."

"Broken record."

Sam wakes up with a violent start, a few minutes after he falls asleep.

Nevermind on sleep tonight, then.

Dean wants to point out that he's survived years living the way he does, making the choices to shoot down those who were potentially infected without pausing to ask questions, but he doesn't need Sam to counter with the fact that he nearly got himself killed just a couple of hours ago. Instead, he says, coldly, "We better split up soon, then," as he gets in the driver's seat of the van. And that's the plan — he and Sam obviously aren't going to see eye-to-eye on anything, so it's pointless trying to stick together beyond necessity.

Dean drives a few miles. He passes a gas station — what's left of it, at least — but they're all empty these days. His best bet is to find a vehicle and hope there's still some gas inside.

He notices Sam jolt awake because he glances in the rear view mirror at the right time. He wouldn't be surprised if Sam is riddled with nightmares — a lot of survivors are. It's common to hear people crying out in the middle of the night at the Camp. Not that Dean is going to think too deeply about it, or have a heart-to-heart with Sam about it. That's just the way it goes when the world is basically over.

For most people. Dean's nightmares stopped a while back.

"Good timing," he states, just as he slows the car down. "We're gonna see if this one has anything in it." He gestures to a car as they pull up to it. "I got a container in back."

"I'll go get it, just stay in the van in case you need to bolt," Sam says without pause, moving to get the container in the back. "I'll yell if I need you, but if it's too much, you can always take off and leave me." Not that he thinks Dean needs the reminder, and that hurts as much as everything else, but he accepts it. This world is his punishment; a Dean that doesn't give a fuck about him is his personal Hell, and he has to take the pain and punishment and be something better than before.

He grabs the container and leaves wordlessly. It's very quiet, which is always good, and there are a number of cars left around the place. For the most part, they're nearly empty; even between five or six cars, there's little but a few inches of gas. Barely that. However, he disappears behind the store for a long moment — there's the muffled sound of something growling and screaming. The screaming doesn't last long, though.

Dean should probably be more concerned with the headlights down the road, in his rearview mirror. Sam, meanwhile, wanders back out from behind the gas station, the container full of gas, and swishes it around to offer to Dean. His stare trails back toward the headlights, too.

Never a dull moment.

Dean isn't exactly a fan of Sam telling him what to do — it's one thing to have Sam watch his back. It's another entirely to have Sam tell him to sit tight. The only reason he listens and doesn't get out of the car is because someone needs to keep lookout, and the way his reunion with Sam has been going, if Dean follows, all they're going to get out of this situation is argument.

So fine, he sits back, takes out his pistol, scans the area, and let's Sam do his thing. It sounds like he handles a Croat out there, and if there's one, there is probably more, so Dean is ready to take out any that appear.

Except, no other Croats appear. A car does instead, headlights catching Dean's eyes and reminding him that he has a headache. End of the world, and he still has to deal with some asshole leaving his brights on.

As Sam returns, Dean gets out of the car and goes to step beside him.

"Lemme handle this, Sam," Dean says, warning in his tone. "My way."

"Your way is blasting a hole in their head," he grumbles, and then says with more certainty, but he moves to stand closer to Dean, for the purpose of taking a bullet for him of course. Fuck it, he's Dean's brother. If he dies, he can go defending the dickhead. The car -- no, truck Big ol' one, with men sitting in the back of it. Lot of 'em, too. He's not sure if they're equipped to take them out, but then, they could have pulled up and blasted them all to pieces anyway. The driver, maybe just a little older than Sam, hops out and calls from a distance, "You a refugee? Name's Billy, and these fellas here are hunters, same as me. Could get you to the next place if you're havin' trouble."

Sam glances at Dean.

"Do I know you two? You seem familiar." And yeah, actually, Billy is familiar. Maybe someone Dad worked with? He must've been a pretty new hunter at the time. He's got clean clothes and a simple sort of look about him, like the guy you'd see at the bar, who drinks just enough and plays poker for the sake of the game. "... Winchester. I don't believe my eyes. You're Dean, aintcha? You and me and your old man, we did a gig long, long time ago."

Oh. Well. That answers that.

"I was 22, new buck in the game. You probably remember me with shaggier hair. Don't remember the short one bein' so tall, though."

If it gets down to it, Dean assumes he's going to wind up having to struggle against Sam to take down any kind of threat. Which makes Sam a liability. But Dean's a quick shot, and now he knows better than to take his time to pull a trigger while Sam is around, so he thinks he can make quick business of their company if things go south.

He takes the gas from Sam and sets it on the ground, pistol in hand, as the truck pulls up, and is immediately on guard when he sees just how many men are in the truck. He has extra bullets, but not a whole lot of them.

Being recognized doesn't make Dean feel comfortable, exactly. There was a time when it would — back when Dean was still recruiting for his ragtag group, looking to take on anyone who would help him pursue his cause. Then it started getting more and more dangerous, people started fighting for resources, friends forgot their loyalty. Recognition doesn't count for much anymore.

But Dean needs to play it smart. He may be colder than he was before, but he hasn't grown stupid.

"Yeah, I'm Dean," he replies. "This is Sam," he adds, since the guy is referring to him as 'the short one.' "I remember that hunt. Chupacabra, right?"

He's conscious of the fact that he's still holding his gun, so Dean lowers it to his side — doesn't put it away, but tones down his threatening stance.

"We were just stopping for some gas — heading north, but we should be able to get ourselves there."

Normally Dean wouldn't advertise a coveted resource, but they saw Sam hand it over as they pulled up, so there's no point in trying to hide it.

Laughing, Billy grins, looking younger than he did a moment before.

"Yeah. Yup. That'd be the one. Can't believe a goddamn Chupacabra nearly did me in, too."

Sam can imagine Dean making fun of him. Throwing an arm over his shoulder and saying he'd do better next time. Calling him a loser, but a pretty awesome one. Those days don't exist anymore, though.

"Sounds like a deal," Billy says, "We got a full tank — don't worry 'bout us eyeballing your treasure there. We're gonna be up at the camp just down the road a few miles up; you stop by, we'll get you guys a meal free of charge. Any after the first, I'll have to get compensation through some work, but still. Free meal's an offer anyway."

Billy nods, tips his hat, and climbs back into the truck, and it pulls away without any other trouble. Sam can't help but think he sees a familiar, solemn face in the bed of the truck, but it's dark out and his eyes are playing games with him.

"... Free meal sounds pretty good. I'm guessing you're about half-starved anyway."

Pot, kettle, black.

Not that Sam cares if Dean eats.

Or maybe he fucking does, he doesn't know.

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hope this is okay!! lemme know

it's perfect

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i forgot to have Dean take the gas from Sam....casually fixes that

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